Excerpt from the end of 'A Schizophrenic to Strindberg: An Unanswered Letter'

The singing that the birds do at the start of the day is your song, Strindberg. It gathers you up, and puts you down. It sends you to the edge, but picks your motion up like a new steer that is set for a fine life. This life is our life, but do not be afraid. The singing I speak of has been heard by all, as they rest in weary beds and know happiness to be a thing we can obtain. It is like a transaction between two men of business as they negotiate to the sound of fresh water at a waterhole that stands in the middle of nowhere. This nowhere is an elsewhere that contains all, but does not let go. It does not let go, because it always lets go in the middle of what we least expect. I can hear your voice, only because I am listening intently. This is my promise to you.
I am like a hole that is dug too deep. But luckily you have found me nonetheless, Strindberg. It is a nicety I will always treasure as the gold is at the end of the rainbow, and the seeds of a larger chasing are in the back of the coach. This coach is pulled by dreams as it embarks upon your most ardent passion. This passion is the well, as I am the water. This passion is the tree that never stops growing, and has a hundred years to be what it might not otherwise be. Come, this is for the end of things, which we are almost at. The day has not forgotten you, but neither will I. I will be here for you whenever you need, and whenever the time is right.
This is the time to say goodbye, Strindberg. It is only because I have addressed you in this fashion that I know life has its self once again. This seems a strong thing to say, but I do not say it lightly. The end of things is only a beginning, as the start of things is only an ending. I cannot be more pleased for you Strindberg, as you nestle up to that favourite place of yours outside the reaches of the solar system, that place known as heaven. But come, did you really make it to heaven? Your life was one of suffering, as your Inferno is a great testament to. But as I have said, your schizophrenia cannot be the only thing that is left. We must
forgive all your transgressions as we accept your life. This life was a great one, and this much we will know to be sure.

Yours truly,

Dr Paul Fearne

The 'New' Modernity

There has been much discussion as to the creative direction the new millenia will take. We saw 'modernity' in the 20th century, and towards the later part, 'post-modernity'. But, now, as is warranted, there must come a break from the past, and a leap into the present. We have had the harmonic, the atonal, the structured, and the fragmented.  We have even had a combination of these invectives (namely through the melding of harmony and atonality of the Estonian composed Arvo Part). But what now?

In the mental health wing of Royal Melbourne, where I was recently incarcerated, I heard a word uttered that was even more onerous that the words - "your ECT is due". A writer and academic had been admited, and she said to me that the newly accepted paradigm is called 'meta-modernism'! The sound I made at this remark is the same as that I let escape my lips when no one turned up to the launch of my new book! I was horrified! Have we, as a species, so lost our imaginations in this technological age, as to be so simple as to continue with the same fussing about with old and expired vocabularies (I even write this as a former philosopher who adored the word 'meta' in all it's uses).

Here is my neologism - 'modemity'. It speaks for itself. It is the same as the word modernity, but different. I once coined the neologism 'heterogeneous homogeneity' to account for just this synthesis of past and present.  More words on this anon (as the great man once coined).